Cruised

This morning I had a follow-up appointment with the surgeon so he could make sure my lip was healing okay. Everything’s fine, and the stitches are gone. Hooray!

To get to the doctor’s office in Hoboken, I had to take the PATH train in the direction opposite my usual trip to work. After the appointment, I had to take the train all the way to my office in Newark, passing by the stop where I live. This required me to take three separate trains, which pretty much defies logic, but it’s true. (This map of the PATH routes may help: I live at the Grove Street station, and I work in Newark, and the doctor’s office was in Hoboken.)

It was about 10:00 in the morning. I got off the first train and waited for the second one. When it arrived, I walked into the nearly empty car and saw a guy sitting at the end of the middle section of seats. From the corner of my eye he seemed cute, so I decided to sit directly across from him. There was a middle-aged couple sitting at one end of the car and there was a woman sitting at the other end of the row from me, but that was it. The guy looked at me as I sat down. I glanced up from my copy of the New Yorker, and he was still looking at me. His blue eyes were framed in a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. He had short black hair. Gray t-shirt and a pair of dark blue nylon athletic pants. Nice forearms. And he had a suitcase. He must have been on his way back from the airport after a long weekend trip.

I looked back down at my magazine and tried to read. Then I noticed that the guy’s hand was resting on his crotch. Not on his thigh, not near his crotch, but on his crotch. I find dark blue nylon athletic pants an incredible turn-on to begin with, but this drove me nuts. I counted for a few seconds, then I glanced up again, and he was still looking at me. I looked back down at my magazine and pretended to read. I was too nervous to sustain the eye contact. The eyes are a direct window into your soul; they hide nothing; staring into someone’s eyes leaves you completely defenseless. But as I was looking down at my magazine, my lips turned up into a little smile, which he must have seen.

The train stopped at Grove Street, where I live, but I was continuing on to work. He was getting off, though, and I thought: I’m already late for work — what’s another hour? Then I thought, well, this is weird, he’s got a suitcase, and he’s going home to his apartment after several days away, he probably has to check his mail and listen to his answering machine and feed the cat, and I really should get to work, and anyway, maybe he was only flirting and just wants to get home, and if I get off the train he might think I’m stalking him.

But after he got off the train, and the doors closed, and the train began to pull away, he turned to look at me, and he smiled shyly.

Dammit. I should have at least got off the train and waited ten minutes for the next one. In fact, I could have waited there for the third train of my trip, instead of waiting for it at the next stop. Should have at least given him my number. But I was nervous and excited and I couldn’t think that fast. I should have been more impulsive.